Chronicles of the Elevator
by kompletelykrazykay
Summary: A new job, a pent house office, and a hundred story sky scraper that hosts some of the most important world meetings. Sounds amazing, right? Well, what happens when you are stuck with certain representatives in the incredibly old elevator, all the way to the hundredth floor? Rated T for minor language, France, and just to be safe. (Will eventually include just about everyone)
1. America

**I'm sorry people who were following A New Mansion. I was getting kind of tired of it and couldn't get motivated. So, it's just an empty husk of a story now. So, my new line of concentration is this little piece right here. **

**I got the idea from this when I was reading the Elevator scene in the book Divergent (Anyone? Any clue what I'm talking about?) So, eventually this decided to crawl out of my brain juice.**

**Italics are the OCish person thinking back on her . . . experiences.**

**Please, enjoy. ^J^**

* * *

It all started when I got promoted. Yup, usually you would be fine with getting a better job, better hours, more money, and a nice, penthouse office, to top it all off. Well, that's fine, but my new office is on the hundredth floor of an international building where world conferences are held. It's a massive but old building that took pride in antique technology, like the ancient elevator I'm supposed to trust with my life, which moves at a sloth's pace. A hundred floors worth of elevator travel. Yup, this is always interesting. Of course, between the main lobby and the hundredth floor, I have gotten to meet nearly all of the representatives from each country.

And it's not very fun, I can tell you that much.

These psychopaths are everywhere. EVERYWHERE. They are wedged into every corner of this building, and every day I got to meet a different one.

Needless to say, after a few months of this, I went to my boss and quit.

"B-but," he objects, "You're so good at your job! We need you here! You are very important! These people can't see their VP just give up!"

"Do you know the hell I've been through since I got here?" I ask, leaning over the desk. "Should I enlighten you on just what I have had to endure since I got here?"

So, to help him understand my predicament, I recalled the first day I came here, the first insane elevator ride to the hundredth floor that, for whatever reason, did not stop between here and there. A hundred stories with . . . _him_.

_I stood in the elevator, thoughts racing, everything a slight blur in my excitement to be near so many important people. In fact, such a blur that I didn't even notice when the blond in the bomber jacket got in the elevator with me, not until I could hear obnoxious chewing. I blinked out of my daze and looked around. I suddenly acknowledged him. _

"_Hey," he nods towards me, swallowing an inhumanly large amount of a hamburger. "I'm Alfred F. Jones, but you can call me America."_

_ He holds out a black glove to me to shake. I start to reach to shake his hand, shocked into silence that I'd already met one of the country embodiments, when he takes his hand away. "Oh, to slow," he starts laughing obnoxiously._

_ I tilt my head. What the . . ._

_ "I'm . . ." I start to introduce myself._

_ "I know," he says, "You're the new VP!"_

_ "Yea . . ."_

_ "Wait 'til you meet the others! They're pretty cool, but they aren't as cool as me!" America starts laughing obnoxiously again._

_ "And why do you say tha-"_

_ "'Cuz I'm the hero!" A flag appears out of nowhere, flapping behind him, magical wind picking up. I look around the old elevator, looking for the source of this . . . strangeness. He looks at me. "Oh, I stunned you into silence. I tend to have that effect on people." The flag returns to where it came from and the air returns to normal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see we're only past twenty floors. I find myself wishing this old piece of junk would move just a bit faster._

_ "Um . . . America?"_

_ "The one and only!"_

_ "There is a human embodiment of every country, right?" He nods and starts to say something but I cut him off. "So there's a UK? And a Canada?"_

_ "Who?"_

_ "Canada . . ." I shake my head. "So, um, how old are you guys?"_

_ "Well, you see, I'm physically about twenty, but technically . . . let's see . . . When did Iggy find me?"_

_ "You mean the founding of America?" I murmur, stunned._

_ "It's been technically a bit over four hundred years, maybe five hundred, since I appeared. Iggy found me on the four hundred side of that . . ."_

_ I take a deep breath, knowing I'll probably regret it. "Who's Iggy?"_

_ "Arthur Kirkland, the United Kingdom," he says. He sits on the floor. Floor thirty greets the needle indicating the floor. "You know, I grew up fast. Really fast. Barely a century after Iggy started taking care of me, I was a teenager . . . and . . . stuff happened . . ."_

_ "Stuff?"_

_ "The American Revolution . . ."_

_ Suddenly America got all mopey. "You know, he always makes me feel bad about it. He says the taxes were even worse in the UK, but they were richer . . . it was hard on me, on America . . ." he sniffs. Awkwardly, I sit next to him. I reach to pat his shoulder, then rethink, then rethink again, and sort of pat his shoulder._

_ Suddenly he bursts out crying, sobbing entirely uncontrollably, grabbing me and squeezing the life out of me. Damn, this guy is strong, especially for someone who came in eating burgers . . ._

_ "Um, America?" I choke out. He lets go of me, and stands up suddenly, saluting. "America, what the-"_

_ "Floor fifty," he says. "I always salute at the fiftieth floor." I look at him. "For the fifty United States." I nod, starting to fish in my purse for some pain killers. I swear, I had some ibuprofen here somewhere. . . "What're you looking for?"_

_ "Pain Killers," I openly admit, knowing his voice won't get out of my head._

_ "I know, being in the presence of such a hero might not be what you expected, and you might be shocked, but you don't need to drug yourself up," he says in an arrogant sort of kindness, reaching out to take the pain killers away from me._

_ "Yes, I need them!" I say, turning away, protecting them._

_ "NO! Don't fall to the pressure of medicine! You can be strong! Since I'm the hero, I can help you!" He reaches over my shoulder, grabbing at the bottle. I pop a few in my mouth and swallow dry. Floor 55._

"So?" my boss shrugs, "That's how he usually is."

"Usually is?" I ask. "Of course this is how he is! This idiot is supposed to represent my home country? How do you think I feel about that!"

"Well, I can assure you . . ."

"You can assure me nothing! And I'm barely half way through my lovely hundred floor ride with America!" I fume. I suppress the memory of a crying America when I say he's not the hero, when I ask something about some historical event, crawling out the elevator that's practically flooded from his Texas sized tears . . . "Oh, and don't even get me started on what happened with France!"

* * *

**Probably isn't what you'd want to here . . . **

**So, stuck in an old elevator with France, coming up next!**


	2. France

**It's baaaack~**

**This time, our lovely VP gets stuck in an elevator with . . . FRANCE! DUN DUN DUN DUUUUN**

* * *

_Last time on the Chronicles of the Elevator…_

"So?" my boss shrugs, "That's how he usually is."

"Usually is?" I ask. "Of course this is how he is! This idiot is supposed to represent my home country? How do you think I feel about that?"

"Well, I can assure you . . ."

"You can assure me nothing! And I'm not even half way through my lovely hundred floor ride with America!" I fume. "Oh, and don't even get me started on what happened with France! Do you know about France?"

"Yes . . ."

"Have you been stuck in that elevator with him before?"

"Why, yes, I have," mister boss man nods.

"But you aren't a woman," I shiver.

_ It was my second day of work, and I had yet to get over that trip with Alfred F. Jones. Once again, my mind is elsewhere when I board that blasted elevator, and once again, I fail to notice a different blond than before getting on._

_ "Excusemoi," he says with a thick French accent. I look over and find a man in a pin striped suit, long blond hair tied back, and stubble on his chin. I admit; his entire being was appealing, and it took me a moment to come up with an intelligent statement. But that was the end of the French fantasies. "Have we met before?"_

_ "No, it's too bad our paths have finally crossed," I pout theatrically._

_ "Allow me to introduce myself," he carries on. "I am Francis Bonnefoy. I am one of the nation representatives here, from France." Hm, couldn't have guessed that. "And, may I saw, my day has gotten so much brighter since I've met you. You are the new VP, correct?" _

_ "Yes, I am, and you're understating your job, aren't you? You're the embodiment of France, correct?" I attempt a high class posture, and then give up._

_ "Ah, you know a Frenchman when you see one," he smiles flirtatiously, grasping my hand whilst bowing and kissing it. I pull it away nonchalantly._

_ "So, uh, what floor are you going to?"_

_ "The top," he says, "There is going to be a marathon of world meeting, one every day for a few weeks."_

_ "What do you do in those world meetings?" I glance at the floor needle. Fifteenth floor. Okay, let's see, eighty five more floors to go?_

_ "Honestly, Angleterre and I usually fight, but I try to patch it up with a marriage proposal . . ." I take a step away from Francis. "He always thinks it's strange. I wonder why, everyone knows he's had an affair with America . . ." I shrink into the corner. "Ah, well, that's the life of a nation." He smiles charmingly, and then looks at me. "Mon Cherie, what is the matter?" he takes a step towards me._

_ "Oh, nothing," I tap my foot, standing straighter. He takes another step towards me. "Um . . ."_

_ He grins seductively, cornering me. I notice a faint bluish-purple aura forming. The seductive smirk turns to a rape face, making me thoroughly terrified. "What's wrong?"_

_ "Eh . . ." I sweat drop. Let's see, if I were to quickly, I don't know, jerk my knee up, he's almost close enough. Would that work? Well, I guess I could just see if he backs off . . . but then I noticed the activities of his hand, slowly coming towards me, seemingly towards my neck. I settle for a knee jerk reaction, literally, before the country of "love" can rape me or molest me or grope me._

_ He curls up into a pathetic ball on the floor on the other side of the small lift. The lights abruptly go out, a single, blue spotlight focusing on the blond. He enters a strange sort of speech . . ._

_ "I'm not a bad guy! It's a hard life, being a nation! I've fought with England for as long as I've lived, but we've always cared about each other like best friends! Ah, but my bisexuality discourages him! Why, why was I cursed to have such a fate? Why must I be stuck in a life like this? Why couldn't I be born a mortal and live a normal life!?" He's sitting up now, doing some weird action where he bites the corner of some fabric and shakes his head, tugging at the material pathetically. _

_ "Ah, Angleterre! Where did I go wrong? Was it the proposal? The calendar? The fighting over who would have America?" Francis Bonnefoy, with tears in his eyes, pleads to the ceiling._

_ America? Oh, god, let's not talk about that nut case again . . . The needle indicates floor forty. Almost halfway . . ._

_ "America would have turned out so much better had he been raised by me!"_

_ I break his monologue, therefore returning the lights to normal. "Are you sure about that?"_

_ "Have you met Alfred?"_

_ I slouch a bit, glowering and glaring at the corner. "Yes . . ."_

_ "His diet should improve," France says hotly. "All he eats is that American crap; he should try some real cuisine! France has the best food in the world!" Okay, I'm not going to argue . . . "And the best lovers." He winks at me._

_ "I heard the best lovers were Italian," I smirk, hoping to irk him. I'm tempted to see if I can make him go into a dramatic break down again. _

_ "Ah, they are among the best," he slips into nostalgia mode. "I remember, there was once this young Italian, Lovi, that I had my eye on. Ah, but my best friend Antonio beat me to the fu-"_

_ "Okay," I stop his words where they are. "I'm sure this Lovi girl was very nice." Floor fifty. Oh, God, kill me now._

"Fifty floors with France, you say?" my boss raises an eyebrow. I nod. "Just remember that it could be worse . . ."

"Oh, it gets worse, I'm not finished," I cut him off, diving back into my recount of the story.

_ "My, my," France murmurs. "My dear, you don't look so good." Suddenly he's captured me and is holding me against his chest. I blush furiously. "Some man has done you wrong in the past, oui?" I stumble for words. He knew nothing about my past, right? "You can tell me, mon cherie."_

_ "Um…" I bite my lip, trying to pull myself away from the Frenchman. He simply tightens his death grip around me._

_ His stubble scratches my cheek as he leaned down to whisper, "You know, I could comfort you." His hand starts to creep down my back._

_ "Ehhh . . ." I start to protest._

_ "Sh-sh-sh-sh," he hushes me._

_ "Ehhhhhh . . ." I whine. His hand is getting dangerously close my ass._

_ "No, don't worry mon cherie," he shakes his head. _

_ He goes just too far. I let out a little screech, then let out a blood curdling scream and slap him across the face. His head snaps to one side, then he turns back to me.__His eyes have lost color, a strange aura has returned._

My boss leans back in his seat. "Well, it seems you've had quite an experience . . ."

"THAT," I smack my hand on his desk, "was only the SECOND day! I spent the rest of the ride . . ." And then I revisit the past once again.

_ "Get. AWAY. From. ME!" I run circles in the elevator. France tails me, cutting across the small space again and again. "No!" Why don't I have pepper spray? He seems to get closer and closer every time, and the number floor we are passing seems to climb even slower than before._

_ When floor ninety is indicated, he catches me, pinning me against the doors out of the elevator. "Ah, you can't run from me forever, mon cherie, ohonhonhon!"_

_ "Um . . . France . . . could you . . . please . . . back off?" I manage to squeak out from my cage. France's eyes rake over my face, every feature, every corner, taking a good few minutes to scan the rest of my body. My heart hammers, screaming to get the bloody hell away from this . . . this frog. His eyes settle on my chest and his hand, in super slow-mo, starts to reach out to grope me. _

_ Just then, thank every God ever thought of, the elevator doors opened. I fell backwards, catching myself, and ran, my arms crossed over my chest, all the way back to my office. I made sure to lock the door behind me._

"Oh . . . I'm very sorry you were almost molested by France . . ." my boss coughs awkwardly.

"That wasn't molestation; that was damn near rape!" I shout back, I shudder at the thought. "Remember that was only my second day. My _second_ day! Do you know how many other disturbing encounters I've had? No, you don't. And You know who I was stuck with the next day?" he starts to say something and I cut him off. "Of course you don't! It was that bastard South Italy!"

"Romano Vargas?"

"Lovino," I bite back. "And that was a day I wish I could forget.

* * *

**Oh dear, Romano . . .**

**I feel like the end of the flash back this time was kind of dark . . . sorry :/**

**I'd also like to say that I realize France isn't actually a rapist, but in this series I'm channeling all the worst stereotypes.  
**

**Please Review! **


	3. Lovino (S ItalyRomano)

**Lovino is up! (finally) I'm sorry for any OCCness... Lovi isn't my strong point...**

**Enjoy! ^J^**

* * *

_Last time on the Chronicles of the Elevator…_

"Oh . . . I'm very sorry you were almost molested by France . . ." my boss coughs awkwardly.

"That wasn't molestation; that was damn near rape!" I shout back, I shudder at the thought. "Remember that was only my second day. My second day! Do you know how many other disturbing encounters I've had? No, you don't. And You know who I was stuck with the next day?" he starts to say something and I cut him off. "Of course you don't! It was that bastard South Italy!"

"Romano Vargas?"

"Lovino," I bite back. "And that was a day I wish I could forget."

"Do I want to know?"

I glare at him, "You're going to know anyways. So, of course this all starts over again . . ."

_ The next morning I silently crept into the building, sliding into the elevator before France could get the smart idea of meeting me again. I sigh in relief as I slip into the ancient machine. Suddenly I see someone running towards me as the doors slowly fold closed. The figure runs, almost as if he was being chased . . . my eyes land on the blond chasing him. France. I pale and manage to pull the doors closed before France could come in but after the poor almost rape victim could get in._

_ "Loviiiiinnnooooo!" France cries forlornly, regressing into his dramatic depression. I wonder if this is the Lovi Franc mentioned yesterday . . ._

_ "Graci," he pants slightly from the chase. "Damn wine bastard." He looks at me. "Hey . . . you're . . ."_

_ "I was almost France's last rape victim," I say. The brunette smiles sympathetically. His eyes are a color somewhere in between hazel and brown, and his hair has an abnormal curl sticking out to his right, my left. _

_ "I'm Romano," he nods, "or South Italy." _

_ Another country! "South Italy?"_

_ "My brother and I were governed separately for a little while," Romano explains._

_ "Didn't France call you Lovino?"_

_ "Damn bastard," he makes a disgusted face at just the mention of the other country. "Yea."_

_ "Is Lovi short for Lovino?" I'm honestly curious if this is the Lovi France referred to yesterday, even if I originally thought he was talking about a woman. _

_ "Shut up, bitch!" I yells, his face going red. "I hate being called by that damn nickname!"_

_ "I-I'm sorry," I tremble and step away from the temperamental Italian. I'll take that as a yes . . . "Um . . ." Think! What can I say to smooth his over? France said something about Spain . . . maybe mentioning Spain would help? France said Spain beat him to Lovi . . . now the main question is if Spain is a male or female . . . Spain and this being are in a relationship, aren't they? "Um . . . how's Spain?"_

_ Romano turns an even deeper shade of red (if that's at all possible) and throws a hissy fit. "Don't mention that tomato bastard!" I start to feel as if this red is more of embarrassment instead of rage. Hm . . ._

_ "Eh . . ." I gather my mental strength, "would you like to talk about it?" _

_ "No!" he turns and sits in the corner._

_ Let's see, we've reached the tenth floor. Let's see how this goes. I sit on my knees and analyze his behavior; the best thing I can come up with is to treat him as a young, bratty child. For a moment he seems to be replaced by a chibi-like being in a house maid outfit before this strange reality snaps back into place. "Um, Lovino? Romano? Italy?"_

_ "Romano," he pouts, glaring back at me._

_ "Do you want to sing a song?"_

_ "Hell no!" He scoffs at me, hunching his shoulders. "That's something the Tomato bastard would want me to do."_

_ "Are you mad at the tomato bastard?" I ask, trying to say these words innocently._

_ Romano looks at me out of the corner of his eye. His focus snaps back to the wall when he sees me watching him. This continues for five floors, him looking back and forth while I watch him crouched in his corner. "Yes."_

_ "Why are you mad?"_

_ "Because," Romano doesn't give any ground. Another five floors of our counseling session goes by before he says anything more. "His friends keep trying to rape me."_

_ Ah ha! So Spain is a male! "Who are his friends?"_

_ "Well, his friend, the wine bastard." I guess the wine bastard is France. "But the tomato bastard," I've gathered that this name refers to Spain, "is also friends with the Prussian bastard who's brother the potato bastard is stealing MY brother," Romano spills._

_ I try to follow the line in my head, digging into history class to figure out Prussia and what nation Prussia's brother (the potato bastard) would be. So, Prussia divided into parts of southwest Russia, so maybe potato bastard is Russia? The potato part makes sense, but any relation to North Italy doesn't make any sense. Prussia also included what is now Denmark, Germany . . . Germany! That has to be it! So, Germany and North Italy are friends?_

_ I give up on such complicated matters. Floor thirty five passes. "Are you sure you don't want to sing a song?" Romano glares at me again. "It might make you feel better, and you could forget about all those bastards for a little while." He continues to grow mushrooms in the corner. That reminds me of a blond boy from this academy I visited a few weeks ago looking at different Host Clubs in Japan. "Please?"_

_ "Fine," Romano spits, "But only because you aren't a total bastard." I ignore the word and take no offense. Romano starts to mumble and I don't understand any of it._

_ "I can't hear you~" I smile, trying to get him to sing louder so I can hear him. A small part of my brain registers that this isn't just a small child. Oh well."_

_ He raises his voice a little, so I can barely hear him. "Buono tomato, buono tomato, buono, buono, Oo! Tomato…"_

_ "What a lovely tomato song," I smile. He smiles a little bit. "Do you like tomatoes?" _

_ "I love tomatoes," he smiles. "Those little bastards always make me smile." We stand up like normal adults._

_ "So, you love tomatoes, but Spain is the Tomato bastard?" I ask him._

_ Romano glares at me for about the thousandth time in the last five minutes. "It's not my own damn fault I love tomatoes so much. It's only because Spain raised me. If I was raised by one of those bastards Holy Rome or Austria, I would have been the damn artsy one!"_

"You got Lovino Vargas to sing?" my boss asked.

"That's beside the point –"

"This encounter doesn't sound too bad, though."

I smile ruefully, "Ah, but you see, I'm not quite done . . ."

_ For one reason or another, the nations all found me compelling and seemed to just . . . vent. And vent._

_ "I love me brother, I really do," Lovino sighed softly as we approach floor seventy. I nod, not really paying attention. "But, well, he's got all the art, and all the good things about Italy. I'm stuck with the Mafia, lack all the art . . . I just have the wrong side of the country."_

_ "Uh-huh . . ." the floors slowly slip by._

_ "You're very pretty," he says, catching my attention. I look up at him, raising an eyebrow. "I said you're very pretty."_

_ "Um . . . thank you?"_

_ "I wasn't very nice earlier. I'm sorry, Spain just had me riled up."_

_ I nod._

_ And, with that, we stood in silence until we got to the top of the building, and walked out separate ways._

"See?" my boss says enthusiastically, "A happy ending!"

"Okay, yea, I guess that day was one of the easier ones," I admit. "But it was only a partial buffer for what followed . . . . . . ."

* * *

**Next time, on the Chronicles of the Elevator:**

**Lovino might have seemed like an easy elevator partner, but what will our precious VP think of Russia?**


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